I didn’t know what a ‘high curb voice’ was until today, and I learned it from Meme University.
It means “someone’s voice is as irritating as hearing a car door screech open on top of a high curb.”
Luke Bryan could not be reached for comment.
Category Archives: Humor
From Horse Soup To Subway
Work today was like horse anus soup, a large, steaming bowl of it. I went to get the oil changed in Dawn’s car and then went to a Subway. (The food kind, not the subterranean kind.) There were several people in line waiting when I arrived. One of them was a spindly Latino man somewhere around 30 or 60 years of age. Although he had a case of akimbo teeth, his smile was wide. He awkwardly gestured for me to go ahead. “No, it’s okay,” I told him. “No English,” he told me, insisting that I move ahead. When I replied in Spanish, “None of these ______ speaks Spanish? Well, we can do better,” he looked like he found a spider in his underwear. I told him we’d make a go of it and learn in the process if he could tolerate my accent and sense of humor. I helped him with his order as I continued with mine. I hit him with a lot of jokes, such as the one when I told him the chicken plank was made from reprocessed cardboard. In my defense, it looks and tastes like it does. He didn’t know what to say when I asked him, “You want the WHOLE chicken on there? That’s crazy!” He laughed and pointed at the bland, lifeless plank of chicken breast. He now knows that the rotisserie chicken is a smarter choice, regardless, if you’re interested in eating shredded animal flesh under a pile of vegetables.
Because we were having a bit of fun with it, people in line and working there were all interested and listening. It sounds impossible, but we had a good time for those few minutes we interacted. Most of the time, standing in line at Subway at lunch is similar to the process of lining up for a firing squad staffed by cross-eyed gunners. We chose the other fork of the road, the one lined with shoeless singers and banjos, the road Robert Frost would have never taken unless he had a hit of LSD with him.
When he got his receipt, I pulled out the marker I invariably have with me and wrote, “+tomato+mayo” on it and told him to keep the receipt for his next order. He was beaming. I think I just gave Subway a lifetime customer and another human being a little bit of optimism about the rest of us.
Sketchy ________
NSFW warning: this story is true. It contains references that will make curse words materialize in your head. (Not that watching the news doesn’t cause the same reaction, regardless of which camp you root for.) If you know the song, there’s no use pretending you’re offended. This story, however, reminds people of the fact that I’m not one to be offended at profanity per se; the sentiment underlying the language is the only offending force at work when profanity makes its appearance.
For real, though? You’re still reading? Stop reading. You will get offended or be put in the position that obligates you to pretend you’re offended. (A common affliction we all seem to suffer from more and more.)
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Most of us have our profane “in-jokes,” ones which defy meticulous explanation.
One of mine is “Sketchy _____________.”
If someone passes by who looks like he just jumped out of bed after a long night in a beer-filled ditch, I laugh and sing a line from a Prince song. Its radio title was “Sexy M.F.” You can google it if you need to.
Likewise, if someone looks like a rejected extra from “Silence of The Lambs,” the dicey parts, I’ll croon the line in an even creepier falsetto. If they look like a failed professional bowler wearing stuff from his mom’s closet, he gets the “Sexy M.F.” Prince song. The only requirement is that I change “sexy” to “sketchy.”
Shortly after the new road bypassing Old Wire in North Springdale was finished, we were waiting at the light at 264. One of the weirdest people I’ve ever seen in my life was waiting on the opposite side of the intersection. He looked like Axe Body Spray had mated with Domino’s Pizza and produced a child. I suspect that even his birth certificate had been stamped “Suspicious.”
I sang the lyric wrong without thinking. Comedy gold was born.
If you’re ever around me and we see someone really wickedly strange, just nod and I’ll do the thing. There are few joys greater than hearing me sing in a falsetto, especially in regard to an obscure Prince song.
In closing, don’t be a “Sketchy ____________.”
Or I’ll sing at you as you pass by.
A List For The Ages
I was at the in-laws’ house, chopping wood for the fireplace.
The next-door neighbor came out and said, “Need firewood, do you?”
“No, I just hate trees,” I told him.
Bill Engvall could not be reached for comment.
In an oblivious nod to wordplay, my health insurance said they don’t cover baldness.
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It bears repeating: if you are in it, you ARE traffic.
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Monday, I woke up with random splotches of hair on my head.
I went to the doctor.
He diagnosed me with non-pattern baldness.
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Unusual sign you’re an artist: if your cat vomits on the floor and your first thought is whether decorative beads would enhance the design – or detract from it.
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Two-part anecdote: the lock on my community mailbox was inoperable. Instead of waiting on the postal tech to replace the lock, I forced the key in to get the treasures I knew I would find. Among them was a custom deck of playing cards I had made for someone unlucky enough to be related to me. (Note: I had to break the key off to keep people from getting inside the box pending alleged scheduled repair.)
Also, and much to my surprise, a fellow Aficionado of Shenanigans had honored me with a pleasant surprise. The envelope was addressed to: “President of the Avian Minstrel Society, NWA Chapter.” I assume I’m the president. My wife never mentioned an interest in anything either minstrel nor avian, unless cooked in the oven and coated in gravy. Inside the envelope was a page from the best/worst book ever published. Its pages are regarded as both awesome and awful, depending on the dosage of whatever medication you’ve been overprescribed.
It is advisable NOT to attempt to make sense of the contents of the page.
P.S. I bet Zuckerberg never imagined that Facebook would ever have a post as weird as this one.
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Note: don’t try to suck the cork out of a bottle of wine, no matter how much Walmart drives you to it during winter weather. P.S. I did drop a bottle, though – and felt terrible, especially since I successfully passed it 15 yards. (Does anyone else see a bird in the accidental mess?)
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I rarely post other people’s pictures. This one, however, bears such an uncanny resemblance to my mother-in-law that it made me look twice. No word on what my sister-in-law might have prepared for lunch that day.
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“…As for you, if you’re 60 or older, you were born closer to the 1800s than today…”
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Regarding the almost-road conditions: 99 Problems But The Ditch Ain’t One…
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I walked in with a couple of scratches on my face.
“Attacked by a pack of coyotes?” a coworker asked.
“No, a pack of cigarettes.”
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“Monday is ranch dip with a hidden cockroach in it,” the man said, fairly loudly.
I laughed. It’s a good line.
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Possible tourism slogan for small towns in Arkansas: “It was more real than I imagined it would be.”
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“I’ve been working like a dog,” my boss said.
“Yeah, you get distracted every time someone passes by.”
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I can see for miles and miles, if I choose. I’ll stay here, though, and grimace at the walls in front of me – and recoil with each mundane complaint from those around me. It’s out there, though, the wide expanse of world. I could see for miles and miles. If I chose.
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At 4 a.m., the rain violently washed away all the accumulated sins. Unlike with yesterday’s social media rants, people drove with caution as their cars skidded on the impromptu rivers eddying across the roads. To avoid a fully-clothed shower, I detoured through the cavernous hallways as I walked. A woman absently exited through a side door ahead of me. She muttered to herself as my steps fell only two feet behind her. Halfway down the hallway, she jumped in surprise at my unexpected presence behind her. “You startled me,” she said, laughing. “Yes, just like the day will,” I cryptically answered. We both laughed and went our separate ways.
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Though it’s early February, I’m out under a gazebo, jacketless, enjoying the breeze pass over me. I can’t gather impetus or enthusiasm to immerse myself once again in the literal confines inside the place in which I trade my finite minutes for small, rectangular green pieces of paper. Inside I must go, leaving the breeze and approaching daylight. I take a tiny portion of the darkness with me as consolation.
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I’ve abandoned my plan to publish a yearly Non-Farmer’s Almanac.
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“Can you drive a stick?” the snarky senior citizen asked me.
“Yes. Where do you want me to take it?”
I bowed.
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Things might have been different if Ted Kaczynski’s neighbor had been prone to sudden staccato bursts of trumpet playing at random intervals.
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For 5 consecutive days, I’ve successfully printed a form and reduced it 5% each day without anyone noticing. I’m proud of this achievement and hope fervently to reach 1/2 size on the form before someone has a panic attack.
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An epitaph I wrote for someone who died last year…
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Regarding the almost-road conditions: 99 Problems But The Ditch Ain’t One…
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A Dumb Joke For You
As I passed the old art supply shop, I noticed an open trash can at the edge of the curb. I drove a little further and made a U-turn. There was no traffic at all when I did so. I drove very close to the curb, hung my arm out the window and slammed the small bag of trash I had into the top of the trash can.
Immediately, I saw blue lights come on ahead of me. I pulled over and waited for the policeman to come up to the window.
“What’s the problem,” I asked him.
“I’m going to have to give you a ticket for Dunk Driving.”
¿ Is It Kind ?
My response to the “Is It Kind?” demand of those positivity memes. (The ones which strangle me through the eyes.)
Isaac’s Raindrama Observation
Noted sociologist Isaac (who needs only one name), coined the term ‘raindrama’ two years ago. He noted that the actual or impending presence of rain immediately connotes an intense dramatic feel to all human activity exposed to it. Conversely, his observation also ridicules anyone who hasn’t noticed this tendency in their own personal lives, citing it as evidence of willful obstinance.
A Note About a Good Burn
Due to the political nonsense from Trump of late, an evangelical commented that no one could say what really happened behind closed doors and that if we were discussing it, we were bearing false witness, because only eyewitnesses can talk.
Someone replied, “Well, that eliminates literally all of the Gospels, then, doesn’t it, duh?”
And I felt like no truer truth that burns had ever been written.
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P.S. This isn’t an anti-religion post. It’s an anti-stupidity post. As an expert on stupidity in the first-person, I’m allowed to discuss these things.
Don’t Shoot the Messenger
Apparently, many Facebook users are unaware that they can easily block messages from a person WITHOUT also blocking them on Facebook.
Think of it as being able to go out and meet a friend without worrying about them calling you at midnight – or when their cat needs a taxi. Because they can’t. That’s how blocking on Messenger works. You choose. You don’t have to rip your phone out of the wall if you’re not giving people your phone number to call you.
Let’s face it, we all have a few friends who can’t resist sending the modern equivalent of chain emails via Messenger. They probably need to read the directions for a box of toothpicks. They just can’t help it. You can’t change them. Others, for whatever reason, seem to be prone to sending viruses to us, or getting hacked/cloned and sending malicious links with titles such as “Video Of You I Found!” or something politically charged like “Obama Killed Your Grandfather” to grab our attention and make us click the link before we turn on our brains.
Sidenote: for those of you who don’t know, it is always wise to start a new Messenger chat by using personal words that inform the recipient that it is from a ‘real’ person, rather than a bot or hacker. Something like, “Hey, this is X. I really like the idea of you wearing a sweater made of pink insulation” will do nicely.
There’s no reason you can’t use Messenger safely. It’s no different than being friends with crazy people. You don’t just yank open your mailbox without listening for a timer in there. Instead of throwing the baby out with the rose-scented bathwater, I suggest a more reasonable approach: block each offender as they send you nonsense, instead of punishing yourself and all your other friends. Get a suspicious message? Get 2,652 gifs that would give anyone a migraine or cause convulsions upon viewing them? Block the person who sent it.
I don’t know how many crazy and clueless friends you have, but I think it would take less time to block each person as they behave stupidly than it would to misuse the incredible communication platform that works on almost any platform or device, from anywhere in the world. We have our problems with social media, to be sure, but most of the consequences are our own fault, precisely because we aren’t using them as intended.
I could be wrong – but it seems like you might be over-reacting or not thinking clearly about how you’re dealing with this.
If you post “Stop sending me stupid messages on Messenger!” the idiots are not going to realize it is them you are referring to. That’s what being stupid does to us. It explains voting, comb-overs, and wearing tight clothing. They don’t get it. Stop preaching to everyone. Target each offender when they send you a message. It only takes once, and you’re done.
P.S. You can use Facebook to private message someone without using Messenger. All you need to do is post and set the privacy control to that specific person. Only that person will be able to see.
And if you’re going to say something ridiculous like, “But something could go wrong!” you’re already using the wrong platform. Something did go wrong. You’re making it hard for the rest of us to contact you when you should be only making it hard for the idiots to do so.
Signed, An Idiot
A Lot of Pickles In That Handbag
Forget the original lyrics. Here’s my take on current events. You’re welcome, X
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I wish that we had one species of venomous birds. People would pay a lot more attention outside, look up more often, and probably sound more natural as they scream.
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If you say, “That’s the last straw!” there is probably a liberal who is happy but gets the wrong idea.
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I wonder if Napoleon had gone by the name “Leon” if he’d been as aggressive as he was.
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I was going to order a personal pizza, but because I was going to eat it, I instead ordered an impersonal pizza – because it was nothing personal.
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I frequent a bar that offers free peanuts because I loathe indentured foodstuffs.
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I bought a ticket in the nosebleed section, not realizing that the usher would punch me in the face. Bravo, for accuracy.
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I got into a fight with a flock of chickens. It’s a lot of exercise bending and throwing punches that low. So, I winged it.
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Once someone points it out, it’s hard to not think about the fact that each time you paint the inside of your house, the interior gets incrementally smaller.
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The patent office sent me a letter to advise me that no one had patented the idea of aardvarks in leotards.
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X’s rule of news site commentary: If you post comments on a news site, especially in anger, you’ve demonstrated the opposite of whatever intelligence is.
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One disadvantage of being a twin is that you can never convince someone that you forgot your sibling’s birthday.
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For us old folks: In a very short time, 2060 will be closer than 1980.
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The world would be much more musical if people’s heads sounded like marimbas when you punch them. Especially at boxing matches.
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The Elder Observation: The world isn’t fundamentally different; your focus, attention, and energy, however, is more likely to be concentrated on the extremes, especially as you grow older. Choices in clothing, food, music, and opinion dwindle; use this tendency as a warning sign that you’ve grown rigid.
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I wrote a movie about a dyslexic hacker. Unfortunately, it was 789 minutes long.
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“Go Tell It On The Mountain” sounds like prank advice.
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It’s not relevant, but I wonder if Bigfoot’s cellphone plan has roaming charges.
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Thanks! Panache, wit, and an actual laugh – all without even opening the envelope. While I certainly appreciate anyone with the nerve, time, and interest to send me a card of any kind, I confess that I’m often surprised by the lack of reciprocity of my admittedly weird efforts to keep life interesting. When it comes, I gain a little hope that not everything I do falls on deaf ears, dim eyes, or uninterested v̶i̶c̶t̶i̶m̶s̶ people in my life.
Signed, The King.
Card-giving is a declining art form. It’s okay to kill tradition and even stick your tongue out while you’re doing it.
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While getting dressed for the formal event, I suddenly realized where the cliché “the ties that bind” originated.
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I can’t help but feel a little put out when the pastor announces that “almost everyone” should join him in song.
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Some doubt that Bigfoot is real. As for me, I doubt he’s a Baptist.
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P.S. Parenthetically Speaking 